


Sweet as

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Public Sex, Virginity Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not—the word has so much damned stigma, really.  He’s not stupid.  He likes it all: the slow, sweet drag of something thick and lovely inside his body and the fast, beating pulse that comes from fucking himself so hard and fast his wrist cramps up.  He just hasn’t seen fit to add anyone to it.  To sex.  With him.  So sure, he’s a—well, technically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet as

**Author's Note:**

> For my Anon, who asked for it!

This business—fumbling against each other with the bricks of an alley wall digging rough gouges into the knobs of his spine, trying in vain to keep from scraping his erection against Bond’s as if Bond would somehow learn of his interest from the press of his cock and not the cling of his lip against his own, breathing only in searing gasps as if he will never catch his breath again but shy about it and only willing to steal a pull of cool air when his chest is too empty and too full at the same time—this _sex_ business, it’s overwhelming.  Q is aware that this is something that happens to teenagers: they tumble into backseats or rut enthusiastically on sofas, hands on arses and limbs shaking at the newness of it.  He’s aware he’s....  And it’s hilarious, really, how Bond has made such fun at his youth when he’d make just as much fun at his age in this case, his inexperience.

It’s not—the word has so much damned _stigma_ , really.  He’s not _stupid_.  He likes it all: the slow, sweet drag of something thick and lovely inside his body and the fast, beating pulse that comes from fucking himself so hard and fast his wrist cramps up.  He just hasn’t seen fit to add anyone to it.  To sex.  With him.  So sure, he’s a—well, technically.  And yes, he’s on the wrong side of thirty and he’d be the punchline of Bond’s condescending, leering jokes if he knew, but he’s taking pains that Bond won’t.  There’s no chance that Bond will suss out his lack of practical knowledge, because Q isn’t going to _let_ him.  He’s got enough theory—now it’s time for the practicum.

Except.  Q tips his head back against the bricks and feels as they snag at his hair, tangling and knotting and pulling gently at him as he rolls against the wall without a care for the pilling and snarling it must be causing his clothing.  Except it’s nothing like practicing in the dark, is it?  Bond puffs hot breath against his skin, stretching, reaching for a taste of Q’s flesh, and Q feels wet air before the brush of a tongue and Bond’s lips seal over a spot on his throat that makes him _keen_.  And he’s stroked his own nipples before, resigned himself to the fact that he’s one of those men it does nothing for, and nearly come at the first accidental brush of Bond’s hand against his chest when Bond shoved his coat aside to mouth at his neck.  Masturbation has never given him hickies before.

Bond’s palm sneaks around to his backside then and Q arches away from the wall; it’s one thing to destroy his clothes because he can’t stop bloody _making out_ with _James Bond_ , but he won’t rough the man’s hands against the brick just for the sin of copping a feel.  He’s prepared, talked himself up mentally for the moment Bond slips his hand down the back of his trousers, but—his leg jerks like he’s been struck by lightning at the first touch of Bond’s blunt fingernails.  As it is, it absolutely gives out on him, dropping like dead weight and shot through with bright, sparking tingles.  He stumbles forward, falls against Bond in a way that’s less grinding pleasure and more inarticulate flailing, though as Bond rushes to steady him he gets a cock-full of grinding, as well.  The sound that escapes him is startled, short and guttural, as if the streak of blue electric has shorted out his brain, as well.  Bond laughs soft and fond.

“What—” Q manages, working to get his legs under him again.  Bond’s fingertips rub firm over the base of his spine again and he wobbles, but he’s mostly steady until Bond pokes at the patch of skin with his nails again and Q’s legs slide out from under him.  It’s a queer feeling, hot and cold and numb and sharp and agonizingly pleasurable all at once.  Q groans into Bond’s shirt collar with feeling.

Bond, damn him, is observant, eyes hot and proprietary as Q writhes like a drop of water on a skillet at the long, slow, steady scratching of Bond’s hand on him.  “Your other lovers should be shot for not taking advantage of you like this.  You’re melting like an ice lolly on a warm day.”

“Shut up,” Q mumbles, and even he can hear the odd pitch to his tone.  “What are you—?”

“You’re incredibly sensitive, aren’t you?” Bond asks.  It’s his voice that nearly does him in: dark and languid like falling asleep in warm water; Q’s leg twitches again and Bond laughs again, something low and taunting.

“I like—” Q tries.  His fingers are trapped against Bond’s shirtfont, pulling and tangled, but Bond keeps mouthing at the shell of Q’s ear with tongue hot and wet and breath shaking desperate and _oh_ , sex is nothing like masturbation _at all_ and Q is in over his head.

“Tell me,” Bond says insistently.  “Tell me what you like.  Tell me what they did to you, what made you come and cry and squirm, and I’ll make you forget every man who ever put his hands on you.  Come on.”

“I—I’ve nev—” 

“Gorgeous thing,” Bond says affectionately, and Q arches into him gratefully.  His legs spread for Bond’s thigh where Bond presses them together, Q practically riding as Bond lets him clamber to his feet only to leave him weak and trembling again.  Q gives a particularly filthy lingering thrust that drags his cock along the lifted ridge of Bond’s own, stroking root to crown in one stuttered push of friction and fabric and Bond’s grip tightens, tugs him in until they’re pressed hot against each other, Bond’s lifted knee nudging at Q’s bollocks in a way that makes him thoroughly regret his tight trousers, no matter how fantastic they make his arse look.  “Come on, Q.  Ride it,” Bond coaxes, rubbing hard circles against Q’s tailbone until he’s doing just that: spreading his thighs wide like the loosest slattern, opening himself as far as he can to get as much connection between their bodies as possible.  He loops an arm around Bond’s neck for leverage and Bond obliges him with a kiss that leaves breathless spots swirling in the fringes of his vision.  He’s rubbed off on his own before, and this is nothing like that.

Bond’s cock is waiting for him each time he works his thrusting, rubbing hips back up to the crux between their bodies.  He makes soft, encouraging noises that boil in Q’s veins; Q sucks at his mouth and clutches at his body and sighs as the heat between them doubles, then doubles again and doubles again until he’s hot with sweat and Bond’s strong hands forcing him higher and harder along his leg, using his own body as a tool for getting Q off.  The pleasure goes high and tight and incandescent, sizzling wire slicing through him as he jams his body against Bond’s and comes helpless, ruining his trousers and probably Bond’s too but suddenly too boneless to care.  Bond shifts him easily, turns him to face the wall so he can rub off on what plushness his backside has to offer, and that spitting-hot spot on Q’s back pulses to feel Bond shudder against him, sinking groaning into the curve of his spine and cupping his hips for a slow, sated thrust.  He lets Bond breathe in his ear a moment before the brick is too cold, too sharp, too impersonal.

At his disgruntled noise, Bond steps back with knees that are pleasingly loose and tugs at his cuffs in that self-assured way that he has.  There’s not a streak of errant moisture on him, though Q feels damp and sticking all over.  There’s a moment where he has a chance to feel self-conscious—his first time with another person was being humped against the outside wall of a blues club by the man he’d only reluctantly agreed to see in the first place and apparently assumed he was some sort of slag, though _getting off against the outside wall of a club on the first date_ , after all—but Bond scoops him close for a lingering kiss.  He has friction burns on the inside of his thighs that come alive when Bond trails just the tips of his fingers up to cup his softening cock, and he laughs breathily against Bond’s mouth with the exhilaration of it all.

“Come to mine for coffee?” Q asks, and Bond regards him with dark eyes still deep with lust.

“And cherries?” 

The question’s obvious, laden with familiar innuendo but sweeter than he's expected.  Q swallows hard.  “If you like.”

“Delicious,” Bond murmurs, capturing his mouth in a kiss.


End file.
